Chapter 42
Bert Younge is dead!
That information caused ripples of shock to flow. From The Bull and Crown on Edward Street all the way down to the docks, word of it spread like wildfire. But though there might have been a shortage of silent lips and unwilling ears, there was an over-abundance indeed of dry eyes on this occasion, everyone accepting the news with almost philosophical composure. Even the law seemed curiously untroubled at having no suspect or witness to the crime, and the magistrate's buoyant demeanor seemed almost more inclined to mete out reward than punishment.
And what of his beloved mother? Not even she seemed overly saddened by his passing; the one handkerchief spent on it did not require turning over. Despite his love for her, Mrs. Younge often thought her son a brute and a hindrance. And on that propitious future day when she made her fortune and re-entered more polite society, her son would have been a burden indeed. There were also other, more immediate, considerations to account for her evident lack of anguish. Concerned that one of their joint enemies had committed the deed and might make her his next target, she felt far more fear than sorrow.
In fact, so discomposed was Mrs. Younge that she gave up information to that vexatious Mr. Darcy on his third attempt, when she normally would have held out much longer. And she settled for a much smaller amount than she might have, had she been in her usual form. But while she lost financially she did not lose sleep, at least not concerning her friend. Having so many other problems of her own at present, Mrs. Younge was firmly convinced that Georgie Wickham could fend for himself. Him and that worthless little baggage of his.
John Barrow heard of the murder early on. His response was shock, followed swiftly by relief. He found out about it by means of his usual source, Timothy Scoggins, who delivered the information on the very next day, and in an even more nonchalant manner than usual.
As unpleasant as the previous day's event had been, John was grateful for one thing. He'd gotten a glimpse of the Darcy he remembered. Barrow now had first hand proof that the Darcy of old, the one quick to come to the aid of anyone in need of assistance, was still alive and well. What he'd seen was so far removed from the malignant rumors he'd heard regarding Darcy's change of character that Barrow was now inclined to think them the result of idle gossip, and nothing more. Or at the very least, any recent imperfection of temper must be on the surface only, and not affecting the inner man.
Having already put a halt to his busy work load for several days, during which his persistent friend made additional visits to Edward Street, John decided to see this personal matter through to the end. And then, quite suddenly, his protection appeared to be no longer necessary. Darcy returned to Mrs. Younge's residence no more. But John was still curious about what might have prompted those visits to begin with, for if his far-flung theory about Ramsgate was correct, this woman could only be an enemy to Darcy and his sister. Was she perhaps attempting blackmail?
John's curiosity was soon to be partly satisfied, for it was around this time that Barrow heard, from various sources, an interesting piece of news. There appeared to be some sort of race on to find the whereabouts of a Mr. George Wickham. Nearly every merchant in town, at least those selling wearable, edible or intoxicating stuff, had a warrant out for his arrest. And several gentlemen were searching for him as well. It seems that he'd made off with someone's daughter.
The conversation John overheard months ago at the Bull and Crown between Mrs. Younge and someone resembling Wickham came readily to mind, as well as the gist of that conversation. Could Darcy have been searching for Mrs. Younge in the hopes of determining Wickham's whereabouts? Connecting these occurrences with his previous conjecture on events at Ramsgate, Barrow now reached the conclusion that Georgiana must indeed be a victim, and that thought could not be borne.
With the intention of helping to thwart any plans of that nature, John Barrow added his own name to the list of those interested in finding George Wickham. And suspecting that his old friend Darcy might have already utilized the services of Mrs. Younge in order to accomplish just that, Barrow once again made plans to follow his friend. He would set out first thing on the morrow, and only hoped that there would be time enough to assist in some way.
Chapter 43
Just as John theorized, Darcy did venture forth in the morning, to a neighborhood little improved over his previous expedition. John followed Darcy's carriage with his own, keeping a full street length behind on the crowded avenue so as to avoid suspicion.
Darcy alighted from his carriage in front of a boarding house not too different from the one on Edward Street. At seeing Darcy approach the house, Stevens knew to go a certain distance and stop. Meanwhile, John quickly pulled the shades and made a few quick alterations. In a small sack was a partial change of clothes and a bottle of spirits. Jacket and waistcoat had already been removed; additional changes took no time at all. Cambric was replaced by a rough woven work shirt. Well-worn high-lows replaced slippers, and a silk hat replaced by an oversized flat cap. A liberal sprinkling of gin added to the effect. John quickly exited his carriage without assistance, and at a brisk pace turned back towards the boarding house. Stevens noted how much different his employer looked upon leaving the carriage than when he first entered it, but was not surprised. There was not much that did surprise him when his master was at work.
Upon entering the house, Barrow listened for sounds of a recent entry, which he followed up the steps and down a long, narrow corridor. John approached the door in question, and, after listening for the voice he wanted to hear, settled in. Anyone passing would hardly take note of the drunken laborer sprawled on the floor with his head resting against the door jamb, except perhaps to drive him away. But this was a perfect perch from which to listen to all. Unfortunately, what John heard were the sounds of two men making immediate plans to leave! There was business to conduct, and it would take place elsewhere. John quickly propelled himself off the floor, and keeping his face down leaned against the wall in drunken posture. At that moment the door was flung open and two men stepped out.
But Barrow would be saved from immediate discovery by the sudden cry of a voice within, of feminine variety, which demanded the attention of one of the men preparing to take their leave. "Wickham, dearest, would you please bring back something for tea? La, I'm so hungry! I'm certain I will faint dead away in your absence, though from love or from hunger I do not know!" An immature giggle accompanied the last sentiment.
"If you wait for my return, dearest, you can swoon into my arms."
John took quick note of Wickham's face as he came near. Thought his reply had been all sweetness, his expression was grim. He then added, "On second thought, my love, we might be gone for several hours at least. Hold out but a short while, my angel, and I'll send something up for you."
In apparent need to vent his true feelings he shoved John as he passed and raised his voice in disapprobation, "Go on with you!" Wickham's push caused John to lose his balance. As Barrow reached for the wall to steady himself he happened to look up just as Darcy was passing. And Darcy chose that exact moment to look down.
In that instant, their eyes met and locked.
A chill passed through Darcy, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he sought to place the face before him, a face growing increasingly pale under his unrelenting scrutiny. "I beg your pardon, sir," the man muttered under his breath, finally lowering his countenance as he eased his way past in the narrow hallway.
The voice, though low, was distinctive. Rough textured baritone. Darcy felt certain he'd heard that voice before, years ago, in intermittent intervals when its change was still incomplete. Every intuitive feeling said that he knew this man as a boy. He attempted to force youthful memories to the forefront of his mind, anything to help attach a name to the face, but there was too much on his mind at present to make a quick connection. With great reluctance he finally continued down the hall. Then, not ten paces away, he stopped in his tracks as it came to him with shocking clarity. Eton! John Barrow! His voice! Darcy quickly turned round to look once more, but the man was now gone!
Darcy felt hairs on his neck ascend. How disconcerting to see a ghost from the past amongst the living! He shook his head to clear it, but recollections crowded in all the same. Barrow left Eton without a trace. It must be almost eight years since I last saw him, and six years since we despaired of ever finding him. By then father was dying, else I would have done more. Then a less emotional, more rational line of thought fought to gain the upper hand in Darcy's mind. But surely I must be mistaken. That man was a drunkard, almost a beggar! John could not have sunk so low. Darcy remembered Barrow's own words, I will have my share of happiness! At the time those words were spoken, there was no doubt in Darcy's mind that the young lad standing before him would make it so. But now Darcy felt little comfort in the remembrance.
As they quit the steps and neared the doorway he lengthened his stride to keep close to Wickham, but before he crossed the threshold, he allowed himself one more glance back up the steps and strained to see down the still empty corridor. With a sigh of resignation, he once again turned his full attention to the man two steps ahead of him. A fully grown man who possessed not one tenth of the worth of that boy from so many years ago.
There were windows at each end of the long hallway. As soon as Darcy and Wickham passed, John quickly and soundlessly went to the closest one, the one overlooking the back of the house. He lifted himself out and onto a wide ledge. There, with shallow gasps, he caught his breath. Equal parts of emotion and exertion had taken his breath away. He knew me! I'm certain of it! A flood of memories came to him, and then the reality of the present. As he considered his outward appearance, John gave a wry smile. I suppose I've given him good reason not to regret our separation. The humor of that thought went as far as his lips only, it chilled his heart.
Down in the dusty yard below were two women hanging laundry. "Look'it Fanny, over there..." One of them pointed in John's direction with her chin. "... on the lover's ledge. I wager Molly Tipper's 'usband done come 'ome early again. He'll catch 'er yet!" With that the women dissolved into laughter. John let out a short sigh in deference to his ridiculous situation and, seeing his way clear once again, pulled himself back in through the window. He would save his recollections for another place and another time, for right now there was work to be done.